Left Behind
by strikingtwelve
Summary: The Doctor has killed before, but never like this. When Missy is murdered out of cold blood by her once best friend, the Doctor doesn't know how to cope. Written for the Doctor Who Sickfic Challenge - July 2015. T for light horror/violence.


"You let her go! You let her go right now!"

"Oh, would you look at that, Clara? He's got a gun. Never thought he was one for guns, really. You sure do bring the best in him, don't you?"

"You think I'm joking right now? Of all time times, _Master_ -"

"It's Missy now, love."

" _Of all the times_ you've threatened people I loved you think _now_ I'm going to just let this go?!"

There was no reconsideration in her eyes, no twitch of doubt or relaxation in the hand that grasped Clara's shirt, nor the beam she had aimed directly at the brunette's head. She wasn't toying. This wasn't her _haha_ moment of just testing the Doctor's reaction. His attitude. His action. She was ready to kill if she didn't get her way _exactly_ the way _her_ way needed to be.

"People you love? Oh, that's very adorable, innit?" Missy jerked Clara a bit closer, just enough force for the just barely collected woman to stumble.

"Let her go." Each growl grew deeper than before. His hand tightened on his gun a bit more each time, like a crank was slowly making his desperation grow and his knuckles whiten until he'd lost most all feeling in his hand. "Missy I'm not kidding." The gun clicked. "You let her go. Now."

" _Not until_ you tell me what I'd like to know!" Her lips contorted into a pout, then a sinister toothy grin and a laugh. Clara yelped as the cool arm came around her neck. "The clock is ticking, Doctor. It's very simple, really. Tell me where you've hidden your TARDIS."

"Doctor, don't tell her." Clara rasped and gripped Missy's arm. "Get out of here."

He wasn't being selfish. He wasn't choosing his box over his human. He knew, and was painfully aware that Clara knew that the Master gaining control of the ship would bring on a whole new level of danger. A whole new level of some risked lives but mostly lost. He admired that about her. So willing to toss her own life aside for the sake of others. He'd taught her a bit too well.

Of course, he'd be able to beat her again. Gain control of the TARDIS before she had the chance to use it for her own evil. Why couldn't he just give her the wrong coordinates?

Because he couldn't trust that Clara's life wouldn't be so rudely and effortlessly taken no matter what answer he gave.

Missy rolled her eyes. "You know, this really is getting boring. Maybe I can help persuade you..."

"No."

"No?"

His gun fired. _No._

* * *

He vaguely remembered Clara's cries of shock, of plea as she shook away from Missy's stale grip and raced to his aid, prying the gun away from the shaking hand and tossing it against the stone with a clatter while she urged him to run, but not before he'd pulled the trigger. Not once. Not twice. Just how many times, he'd lost count. Consecutive twitches of his index finger had resulted in the gun running dry and a tattered, bloody, very much _not_ regenerating Master collapsing to the floor in front of him.

"Run!" Clara tugged on his sleeve but he didn't budge. His feet were stilled on his own accord, hearts pounding in his own ears, edges of his vision black until all he could see was the woman he once considered to be his best friend. He sensed she was dead. As in completely _out_ of life. No heartbeat. No breaths.

No golden glow.

"She's not regenerating..."

Clara's was in a far too large amount of shock to notice or care. He'd _fired_ that gun. In all the years she'd known him she didn't think he'd ever actually fired a gun. Let alone at a person. Let alone the _last of his kind_ _besides himself._

Was it cold blood? Not necessarily.

But it was _her_ blood. That _he_ had spilled.

She would have time to cry later. To smack him later. To question him on those morals he'd clung to and reprimanded against every soldier he encountered. Right now, in that moment, they just needed to _run._

He wasn't in shock. He was in pain. His legs felt numbed but snapped back into shape when Clara quite roughly jerked him by the sleeve of his jacket. He stumbled after her. Gun left behind, friend left behind, everything he stood for... completely left behind.

Now the Doctor stood blindly facing the console. Hands in his pockets, eyes glazed, ashen face completely emotionless.

"Hey."

He flinched at the voice that would normally come as a comfort. The word so casual and regular he'd respond with one of equal match on a normal day. But this wasn't a normal day.

When was the last time he'd _actually_ had a normal day?

"Brought you some tea." Clara's tone was one he could most definitely define as warm. He'd been far different than ever lately, even after the in-the-moment panic died down over the process of this past month. Clara could hardly get him to eat, or drink anything besides tea, let alone sleep. Or even speak. It was a trope she'd picked up from years of dealing with grief-stricken children, or even something as simple as hormonal women at the school that taught her communications was one of the best remedies to everything. But he wouldn't _talk._

Not as in just completely ignoring every single thing she said, of course. Clara's life remained on the TARDIS now, so of course at least a minimum amount of words had to be exchanged.

They hadn't traveled since the incident but the domesticity was beginning to bring them closer... in a _distant_ sort of way. The Doctor asked her a simple _How are you?_ from time to time, and Clara would always respond with the usual, _Fine. Concerned for you._

She'd yet to receive a response other than a scoff and an incoherent string of words as he retreated. It was growing quite annoying, actually. His stubborn head. His unusually soft words. His refusal to say a word about what had happened and the temper he put on when Clara pushed for a bit of detail on his feelings.

 _I don't blame you if you want to leave._ He'd always say, and admittedly she had considered it. She could be living her life. Making new friends. Socializing while he sat around moping for the past week.

But he wasn't moping, was he, Clara decided. He was sad. And he was showing it. That was enough to cause her to worry and realize she was needed, whether he admitted it or not. She was his carer. So who was she to run off when he was in need of a bit of _care_?

As Clara approached him she tripped on a loose wire and the tea cup in her hand went clattering to the floor. She knew how this would go, and refused to open her eyes for several seconds in preparation of what to do next.

It happened with every loud noise, now. Maybe that was why he refused to fly the TARDIS. Each time the vacuum ran, a dish fell or when one of them, (even him), simply _sneezed_ the Doctor would be sent into a fit of what she decided to be flashbacks from the way he flinched. Not just at the loud noises but repeatedly, consecutively after that, as if he were remembering every single shot that had rang out because of his doing.

She shot forward as he stumbled back, chastising herself as she commanded him to calm his heavy breathing, held his shaking hand and mumbled soft words to soothe his tense face and wide eyes. "It's not real. It's not real." He shook his head, whether to clear the thoughts or _her_ Clara wasn't sure. "Look at me- hey look at me. I'm here. It's not real. It's okay. It's not real."

Slowly he did as she had said, taking long deep breaths instead of weighted shallow ones and Clara felt his body relax.

"I shot her."

"We've been through this." Clara said softly, words so familiar she felt as if she were reading directly from a script. "She was no different from others. You've had to kill people before, alien or not because it was inevitable. You know that." Normally this would be the point he'd nod, apologize for freaking out and hurry away to his bedroom with a bright red face, ears and neck. Never before had Clara earned a pained,

"But Clara. I _shot_ her."

And now she understood. It wasn't just about killing. He'd done it before and he knew it. Gone as far as genocide and it didn't seem to faze him.

But he'd not just killed off the last of his species. His friend.

The Doctor had fired a gun. A bullet was sent straight into the woman's chest because of him. And then another had been sent after. And another. And another.

It wasn't self defense. It wasn't because she'd threatened someone close to him. It truly was _cold blood._ He hated her.

And he hated _himself_ for it.

"You look at me. Hey? Look at me." Clara snapped her fingers before his face. "You need to let this go. You took a life to save a life. And for that I'm eternally grateful. I know it doesn't feel good, and yeah, I wish you wouldn't have had to do it."

"Clara I shot her." He trembled. "I shot her, and I shot her again and I didn't stop. I _murdered_ her then just... _left her behind_ like that and..."

"And?"

"And I regret it."

"But you know what that tells me?" She hummed, tiniest of all smiles on her face as her hand trailed to rest over his chest, eyes refusing to leave his. "That you didn't leave this behind with her."


End file.
